


Little Nightshade

by orphan_account



Series: Mama Bear Remus [1]
Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Anxious Anxiety | Virgil Sanders, Bonding, Comfort, Feel-good, Gen, Getting to Know Each Other, Kid Anxiety | Virgil Sanders, Knitting, Nicknames, Parent Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders, Sympathetic Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders, Talking, but only because remus doesn't know his preferences, remus is terrible at nicknames, remus isn't quite mom yet but he'll get there, skin picking mention, virgil is referred to as they/them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-01
Updated: 2020-08-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:07:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25655635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Prequel to "The Mama Bear Instinct."Remus doesn’t know what to think of the shadow that’s been following him for the past few weeks.The shadow doesn't know what to think of him, either.
Relationships: Anxiety | Virgil Sanders & Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders
Series: Mama Bear Remus [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1860142
Comments: 22
Kudos: 185





	Little Nightshade

Remus doesn’t know what to think of the shadow that’s been following him for the past few weeks.

Well, he’s not sure if he should call it _following_. It’s more like it’s _lingering_ , peeking around corners and hiding in parts of the room where the light doesn’t dare touch, only to disappear whenever he looks in its direction. It used to only appear on occasion, but now he finds it in almost every place he goes (outside of the Imagination, that is; but then again, only two Sides could go in and out of that place, he being one and the other not wanting anything to do with his presence, let alone stalk him in this manner), as though it were drawn to his presence.

It’s…comforting, in its own way. Sure, he might have been discarded by his brother and the dark side of Thomas’ mind is as warm and welcoming as Hell would be frozen over, but at least there’s _something_ that’s willing to hang around him. Even if said something happens to be a tiny, shy, formless shadow, it’s better than nothing.

He feels it staring even now, the creative side busying his hands with his knitting to keep his mind from drifting too far. It’s been doing that a lot lately, drifting; he doesn’t know if it’s a side effect of the Split or if it has something to do with Thomas repressing his “unwanted” thoughts ( _like you_ , a thought that passes his mind but he refuses to voice despite the tickle in his throat), but whatever the case, it’s made finishing his work harder and sifting through Thomas’ darker ideas a nightmare, so he’s settled on knitting the thoughts away until it clears. It’s small and maybe meaningless when things are said and done, but it’s something to do, so he’ll take what he can get.

Something moves in the corner of his eyes, and he…well, he doesn’t look up, necessarily, but he does glance in its direction to find that the shadow has moved closer. Not by much, of course, but it’s no longer hugging the wall like it normally does, hovering just out of reach of the lamp.

Remus’ hands hesitate for only a moment, thick fabric held between his fingers in contemplation. He’s in the middle of wondering if he should do something when he notices the shadow retreat—not fully, but enough for it to be noticeable. Nervous from his stillness, he supposes.

His mouth twitches into the beginnings of a smile.

He pushes on, pointedly looking down at the sweater in his lap (which, he realizes, has eyes lining the sleeves and hem; a nice design, if he says so himself) and pretending as though he had noticed nothing at all.

This continues for a few minutes. Remus knits; the shadow shifts closer. He pauses; the shadow retreats. He goes back to what he’s doing; the shadow returns, this time closer than the last. And all the while, Remus starts to feel…not necessarily _pressure_ , but a weight, almost like a blanket, one that wraps around him until he can barely breathe.

It’s about ten minutes into this little game of theirs that Remus finally sighs, putting his knitting supplies down and folding his hands between his legs (the urge to pick at his skin has been one on the rise lately, and he’s tired of picking until he’s covered in nasty sores, no matter how many ideas they give him for diseases and zombie mutations).

“I know you’re there,” he tells the open air, and he feels the weight tighten, coiling around his ribs to the point he actually chokes.

The shadow doesn’t respond—but, he does see the edges of it reach outwards, spreading along the floor towards him. It’d be a pretty cool visual in a horror movie, really, though it’s a bit unsettling to see in person.

Remus clears his throat, suddenly wanting to shrink into the couch (since when did he feel this _exposed_?). “That’s a pretty nifty ability you got there,” he says, keeping his tone light, conversational, because he’s curious and he’s excited but he can’t let that get the better of him, lest he scare it off before he can figure out just what it is and what it wants. “Really, it’s cool. I love anything that can send a shiver down my spine—you come built-in with that kinda power?”

It doesn’t say anything.

“It’s not anything I came up with,” Remus continues, crossing his arms over his chest, “’cause if it was, you’d’ve made me a pile of mush by now. And I know my _brother_ —” venom drips into his voice despite his best efforts to hide it, “—wouldn’t touch anything considered ‘edgy’ with a ten-foot pole, so you can’t be from the Imagination. So, going off’a that, you gotta be something more important than that. Maybe—a new Side?”

The shadows grow taller, that uneasy feeling seeping deep within his bones. He wants to run, to hide—and it’s confusing and exhilarating all at once, because he’s never felt like this before, not even when he fought against his own creations or managed to convince Thomas to look at a boringly-mediocre horror movie.

Remus smiles despite how the energy coming off it sets his teeth on edge and causes him to shake so much he wonders how his brain hasn’t turned into soup. “Does that mean I’m getting it right?” he asks.

It towers over him, stretching as high as the ceiling. Still, it does not speak, but the nervousness spikes, and he decides its affirmation enough.

“Not one for talking, are ya, buddy?”

Another spike. Still, it remains silent.

Remus rolls his tongue in his mouth, sifting through the haze in his mind for something else to say. It’s hard, given all the repressed thoughts and feelings Thomas channels his way as well as the suffocating fear coursing through him, but he manages regardless, finding himself despite it all. “Hey,” he murmurs, voice softer than usual, “it’s fine. It’s fine, y’know? This—I mean, I don’t know the first thing to do in a situation like _this_ , but we can work through it. I can talk enough for the both of us, and—and whenever you feel ready, feel free to chip in, alright?”

 _Don’t be scared_ , he doesn’t say; nor does he say, _nothing’s going to hurt you_ , because in both cases it feels like a lie, and Remus can’t lie.

But even without those empty words, the shadow slowly shrinks back down to its original size, hesitation clear from the garbled energy emanating from it. And this time, Remus catches sight of something within the darkness, a sight that startles him more than the emotional-manipulating-shadow does; a small, shivering form, messy hair hanging in front of mismatched eyes, purple and green studying him with a cautious, protected glance.

The shadow isn’t just a new Side. The shadow is also a _child_.

Remus clamps his mouth shut, forcing it into a smile despite the hollowness swallowing his heart whole. “Hey, buddy,” he says in that same, quiet tone, ignoring the way his own voice shakes. “It’s nice to finally see you. Not gonna lie, I think it’d be worrying if it turned out I actually was just talking to myself here, even by my standards. And trust me, I don’t got standards.”

The child takes a step back, one hand reaching up to mess with their sleeve. He can’t tell if they’re annoyed or scared (or both).

Humming, Remus leans back against the couch, thrumming his fingers on his knee. “I’m Remus,” he tells them, and the child perks up, eyes widening and mouth slightly agape from the confession. Remus can’t help but snort at their expression. “You got anything you want to be called?”

The child flinches, glaring at him.

Apparently not.

Remus nods, “That’s okay. How about I call you a nickname until you figure it out? Like—uh—” Remus feels a twinge of panic in his chest, looking away as he scrambles for something to call the young side, “—nnnightshade?”

The child’s glare worsens.

“Hey, I didn’t say I’d call you something _great_. Just that I’d call you a name.” Remus pauses, his own words startling him. He’s not much of a fan of this sudden self-doubt stewing in his mind, but he can’t shake it, especially with the child staring at him like they are. “…So…guess if you don’t like it, tough.”

Funnily enough, they stick their tongue out at him.

Ah. So, they’re a brat, too. Nice.

Remus chuckles. “That’s the spirit,” he says with a grin. He turns back to his knitting, hand hovering over the sweater as he asks, “You wanna sit and watch me knit? You seemed to be pretty interested before—I could even teach ya how, if you want.” _For totally selfless reasons_ , Remus thinks and doesn’t say.

The other hesitates, bouncing from foot to foot, eyeing the knitting supplies curiously. Then, shadows receding further until they’re all but dissipated, the child shuffles forward, taking a seat on the other side of the couch with their legs crossed and hands folded in their lap. They look expectantly at the older side, purple and green eyes resonating with nervous energy.

Remus smiles, relaxing slightly at the shoulders, “Hell yeah.” He picks up the sweater, picking up where he left off, “Here, watch me.”

They spend the rest of the evening on the couch, Remus going over different techniques and patterns and the child silently watching as he works, nodding along all the same. They keep their distance, both physically and verbally, Remus careful about what he asks and how he speaks—but the heavy weight lifts somewhat from the older side’s shoulders and the shadows continue to slip away from the child’s form until all that remains is dark eyeshadow underneath their eyes. The child remains, even after Remus falls asleep and wakes the next day to find them curled up against his side, clinging to his shirt like a lifeline.

It’s not much, he thinks—but it’s something.

He thinks he could get used to it.


End file.
